Regret to Inform You...

by Derek Jarrett

  With the war almost totally static, the small band of men continued to care for more horses although, as Baffer said, ‘Sadly, we’re making a lot of them better so that they can go back to war and more suffering.’

  Over the next three months hundreds were treated, dozens put down. They were eight miles from the front line and although the sound of gunfire became louder as the guns became more powerful, Fred found himself barely taking any notice. As he said to Choppy: ‘It’s nothing like the terrible noise when I was so near the enemy.’

  ‘I’ll tell yer what, Fred: we’re bloody lucky. There’s all those poor sods up at the front and the worst we have to do is bury horses and shovel shit. I think the army may have forgotten about us,’ he added with a smile.

  Major Carpenter was away more frequently and only occasionally did Fred have the opportunity to see Caesar; they were precious moments. All continued well until the terrible rains of late 1915 when everywhere became a quagmire. They laboured to move large lengths of the fencing so the horses had new areas, but these were soon turned into mud baths; duckboards disappeared into the morass. Fred could always remember that it was on Boxing Day he began to feel unwell; just a headache and a slight fever at first. Sergeant Hughes said he would have a word with Major Carpenter and maybe a visit to the field hospital a few miles away could be arranged. ‘Perhaps it’s something you’ve picked up from the horses. I’ve heard that can happen,’ added the sergeant.

  Such a visit never happened as within days a big push by the German forces caused the horse hospital to be hastily abandoned; moving troops, not caring for horses, became the order. Whilst Major Carpenter arranged for most of the fitter horses to be moved to engineers who needed all possible support in moving war materials, a high number were put down and with all the frantic activity and approaching gunfire others panicked, some leaping over the fence and running free. Fred wondered what fate they would meet.

  It was in early February 1916 that Fred found himself attached to a group of engineers. Quite how he had become involved with them, he was uncertain. After a long march from the abandoned horse hospital, he became one of around forty men transported westwards by a dilapidated green omnibus to a point where the rail line ended and several roads met. His headaches were becoming more frequent and some days he found himself shivering and seeing things through a colourless haze.

  From Calais, trains carried an ever-increasing volume of war materials; some for road building but essentially guns and vast numbers of shells, near to a town which Fred later learnt was Arras; beyond which the railway had been destroyed months earlier. From that point everything had to be taken by other means to the front line and, after the rains of late 1915 and early 1916, vast areas were a quagmire. It was here that horses were needed to drag the ever-larger guns.

  Fred was amazed at the size of field guns which were becoming ever larger; the number of enormous crates packed with shells even more staggering. He saw the ten wagons, heavily covered against the likely rain and large-wheeled to assist their passage through the inevitable mud. Pairs of horses had been prepared and laden with thick ropes for the mighty effort to move the wagons. He felt particularly poorly as he watched the wretched beasts being harnessed to the wagons. His brow was covered in sweat, his legs were weak and the whole scene appeared as if he was looking in at someone else taking part in all the activity. Yet his feelings were more for the bay and piebald pulling his wagon than with himself.

  ‘Get movin’,’ a voice bellowed. Fred was with two other men walking with the second wagon, some ten yards behind the first. He was the front man walking alongside the horses, encouraging and talking to them from time to time. Two older men were at the rear, one on each side watching the wheels and ready for any major obstacle although Fred did his best to guide the horses around the many holes and large lumps of stone littering the track. Gradually, the way became more difficult, any track petering out. Trees were burnt stumps, hedges but ridges winding their way through a vast area of mud. It was the sergeant with the lead wagon who called a halt and Fred watched as one of the men from that vehicle walked back the short distance.

  ‘The sergeant says we’ll have a stop as he wants to take a look ahead. All we can see is mud and it’s not possible to know whether that’s just on the top or goes deeper. I’m going forward with him to see how far we sink in, but it doesn’t look good to me. Pass the word back.’ Fred gave each of the horses a pat, telling them that they were taking a short break.

  Bobby, the Welsh Borderer, who had carried the message to the vehicle behind turned to Fred as the three of them sat down by the side of the wagon. ‘You look pretty bad. Are you all right?’

  Fred had to shake his head before he really understood the question. ‘Well, I haven’t been feeling good for quite a time now, but I guess that goes for a lot of us.’

  ‘Have you seen a medic?’

  A twinge of a smile came to Fred’s face. ‘Well, I was about to when we had to get out from our camp and that was that.’

  ‘I don’t know what to call you mate, but when did you last have any leave?’

  There was a momentary silence as Fred’s eyes slowly focused on the questioner, ‘I’m Fred. I haven’t had any leave.’

  ‘Well, how long have you been out here then, Fred?’ he asked.

  ‘I came over in August 1914, not sure how long ago that is.’

  ‘Christ,’ uttered the first. ‘You mean you’ve been here for a year and a half and still not got any time back home. Someone must have forgotten you. Who are you with?’

  Fred had some difficulty in working out who he was with; he seemed to have moved around a great deal. He just gave a weak smile. A shout from the front announced everyone was to move off. With a little difficulty Fred got to his feet, placing his left hand against the giant wheel of the wagon for support. The three men took up their positions, following the front wagon which moved a little to the left before starting across the foul stretch of mud. The horses struggled, but did their utmost to carry out the exhausting task demanded of them.

  The procession had only gone fifty yards when Fred’s world came apart; his head swam, the sky and mud collided and his hearing filled with a loud buzzing. He would have fallen immediately if the calf-deep mud had allowed; as it was he lurched and fell face forwards into the filthy mud.

  The following hours were lost to Fred. One of his mates with the wagon saw him pitch forward and bawled out, ‘Stop! Stop!’ The Welshman reached Fred, extracted his feet from the slime, turned him over and lifted him on the side of the wagon. Charlie, the man on the right side wheel pulled a cloth from his trouser pocket and wiped Fred’s face, doing his best to clear his nostrils. By this time the sergeant had arrived. ‘He looks in a bad way. We can’t all turn back so you and you carry him back. It won’t be easy for you, but luckily he’s quite a small guy. At least you won’t have this bloody mud to go through.’

  They got him back to camp two hours later, a period of time to which Fred was completely oblivious. From the camp he was transferred by a small horse-drawn cart to a field hospital a further mile back. It was there, the next day, that Fred regained a semblance of consciousness. His mind was constantly slipping through many scenes; he was drowning one moment, seeing the village pond the next. His gran, Captain Carpenter, Willy and Ruby were there one moment, gone the next. His head was splitting, he felt he was being shaken, loud sounds yet they seemed far away. He lapsed in and out of consciousness.

  The activity in the field hospital greatly increased with the arrival of over fifty men, some suffering terrible injury; every available nurse and doctor doing the best they could. Labels were attached to each man, crudely stating the treatment needed. ‘Dress left foot’, ‘Amputate right arm’, ‘Dead’, ‘Clean head wound’ were all to be seen. Stretcher bearers, nurses, doctors were all at full stretch, and more.

  Twenty-five-year-old Doctor William Last, whose time at a London medical school had been foreshortened to meet the ne
eds in France, puzzled over Fred. His breathing was laboured and noisy, pulse weak, heartbeat slightly irregular, and temperature high but fluctuating. He turned to Nurse Susan Hopkins: ‘I’m baffled by the state of this man. He is clearly very ill, but I can’t diagnose a precise cause. We’ve heard rumours of gas used by the Germans; I don’t know whether he has been exposed to that.’

  ‘Doctor, what do we know about the patient? Where has he come from?’ asked the slim, dark-haired nurse.

  ‘I understand he arrived from a camp, carried by two men, but everything is very vague. I’ve heard about men who become infected simply by being in the trenches; rat and lice infestations, even the soil being contaminated, but he doesn’t have any expected rash or skin marking. I’ll try to get someone else to give a second opinion.’ A second opinion did not help Fred. He drifted in and out of consciousness. On one such occasion he recognised someone was sitting alongside and thought it must be the Reverend Windle.

  When thirty-year-old Reverend Charlton Woods had arrived at the field hospital, no one seemed to know what he had come for or how they should treat him. Most were wary of clerics as they seemed to be for officers only, but stories soon filtered through about this man. A lance corporal who had arrived at the field hospital with severe leg injuries told how the Reverend Woods had been in the trenches during severe fighting. He had even heard how he had crawled out in to no man’s land to offer what solace he could to three dying men. Thereafter, he was treated with respect.

  He sat by Fred. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’ he asked. ‘Can I contact someone for you?’ His broad face was compassionate, lined with feeling for this young man, yet another victim of this war.

  Fred focused as best he could on this kind face. ‘Would you write a letter for me, please?’

  ‘Of course I will.’ He reached into his dark green backpack, searched for a moment and took out writing pad and implement. ‘Now who is it to?’

  ‘To my mother.’

  After gentle questioning, Charlton Woods obtained name and address. ‘Tell me what you want me to say to your mother, Private Smith,’ reading the brown label attached to Fred’s bed-shirt.

  ‘Tell her I love her and I hope to see her soon. Tell her to give my love to Gran. Oh, and to all my friends... and to Ruby.’ He lapsed into a brief silence, whether through exhaustion or to give time for his wishes to be written down was uncertain. ‘Please tell her I’ve loved looking after all the horses.’ His silence became longer. ‘Sir, do you think God loves horses? Will you pray for them?’

  A tone of compassion replied: ‘I’m sure the God I believe in loves all living creatures.’

  The Reverend Charlton Woods pondered over the letter for a long time. He was not unused to writing letters home for wounded men. He knew how a single phrase would be read and reread a hundred times: each word so important. He finished writing; the author of the letter was asleep. The next day the letter was sent on its way; two nights later, Private Fred Smith died.

  FORTY-TWO

  May 1916

  ‘He really is a man full of wonderful surprises,’ Eleanor said to Arthur after hearing of his meeting with Robert Berry, ‘first of all his idea for organising the soldiers’ parcels and now this.’

  Arthur smiled. ‘Well, it was just a casual meeting, but I’ve invited him to come round with Sammy Hatfield later. It was after I’d called into the school to have a word with David earlier this morning that I met Robert and he told me that he and Sammy believed people must grow more vegetables, especially with the shortages caused by the U-boats. Apparently they have built up a supply of seeds from beans, peas and other vegetables they grew last year and have been into Steepleton and Canchester to buy up as many seeds as possible.’

  ‘So he’s not just thought of the idea, then?’ interjected Eleanor.

  ‘It would seem not. He wants everyone to give over part of their garden to grow vegetables. He thinks the war will go on for a long time and growing vegetables will help and that in the autumn we can all begin storing seeds. And another thing, you remember my dear that you were talking about the new Summer Time Act coming in this month. Well, Robert says the extra hour of daylight will give us all more time for our gardens. Anyway, I hope it’s all right with you, darling, I’ve asked them both round for eleven o’clock.’

  ‘Of course it is, Arthur. I look forward to hearing more.’

  Even as Arthur and Eleanor were discussing the idea, Peter Woods was cycling with all speed towards the village. He knew that once again he carried news that would bring grief; the envelope was all too familiar. It was just after ten o’clock that Arthur and Eleanor having cleared the table, were alerted by a heavy knocking at the door. They found a slightly breathless Peter Woods holding an envelope. ‘I’m sorry to bother you, but I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘That’s all right, Peter,’ Eleanor gently reassured him. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Well, I have this telegram for Mrs Smith,’ he said holding out the buff envelope. An immediate feeling of dread descended upon them.

  ‘Oh, it must be about poor Fred.’

  ‘And we know she’s not at home,’ grimaced Arthur.

  ‘That’s what I mean, sir. I delivered a letter for her on Monday and I know she wasn’t at home. But this - I can’t just put it through her door.’

  Arthur glanced at Eleanor; who gave him an encouraging half smile. ‘You’re right, of course Peter, we have to get this to her. I expect it’s against regulations, but will you leave it with me? I can promise to get it to her as soon as possible.’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ Peter immediately agreed, handing the telegram over with some relief. ‘I don’t need to say anything back at the office. I wish you well sir.’ He left the vicarage for his return to Steepleton. His heart, too, was sinking; surely this was bad news about Fred.

  As soon as he had gone, Eleanor turned to Arthur. ‘We don’t know when Liz will next be home.’ They recalled that when old Mrs Smith had died, Arthur had written to her other daughter, Mary. After an uncertain start, Liz had enjoyed her sister coming to live with her. Everyone had seen what a difference her sister had made, for the inside of the cottage now appeared spick and span and Major de Maine, the owner of the terrace of cottages, had arranged for the exterior to be redecorated. ‘Unrecognisable,’ Eleanor had said to Arthur a month after the sisters were united.

  Towards the end of 1915, Eleanor and Arthur had been amazed at Liz’s news. ‘Well, Mary and I have made a decision. We need to do our bit for the war effort and Fred would want me to do that, too. So we’ve decided to go and work at the munitions factory just beyond a place called Epping. They need lots of workers and we’ve heard from a lady who’s got two spare rooms and we’ll stay there.’ That had been seven months earlier.

  ‘Eleanor, I need to see Liz as quickly as possible. Jack Mansfield has often said that if I’ve got a real emergency away from the village to let him know and he’ll drive me there. I’m sure he will if he can. I guess it’s around sixty miles and it shouldn’t be too difficult to find the factory. Liz told me that there were over 3,000 people working there so anyone near Epping should know.’

  ‘That’s the best idea, Arthur. You bicycle round to Spinney Farm and I’ll go round to Liz’s house and collect the letter that Peter delivered on Monday. I know she keeps the key round the back in a pot.’

  Fifteen minutes later Arthur arrived at the forecourt to Spinney Farm, spotting young Doris Groves carrying a basket full of washing. ‘Oh Doris, can you please tell me where Mr Mansfield is? I need to see him urgently.’

  ‘Ay. Master is indoors as I just saw him coming back from sheep field.’ Arthur thanked her and in answer to his knock, was delighted to see Jack Mansfield.

  ‘Why Arthur, it’s good to see you,’ but realised from Arthur’s expression that this was not just a social visit. ‘What is it?’

  Arthur explained, knowing that the farmer would maintain confidence; they had a high regard for each oth
er. ‘Of course I can take you, Arthur. It can only be around fifty miles so we can easily get there and back today. Poor lady, let’s just hope it’s not the worst news, but from what you’ve told me it certainly sounds bad. Just give me ten minutes and I’ll be ready.’

  Fifteen minutes later, Eleanor and Arthur were in the back of Jack Mansfield’s Phoenix leaving Rusfield. Eleanor had asked that she and Arthur sit together in the back so they could discuss their approach to Liz Smith; letter and telegram were both safe in her shoulder bag. On her way back from Liz Smith’s cottage she had called on Robert Berry and explained they would have to postpone their meeting about vegetable growing. Arthur was much relieved to have Eleanor with him for he knew how much better she was at choosing the best words in any difficult situation.

  The day was fine and the journey passed without difficulty. As they went through Braintree around half past twelve, Jack Mansfield thought of the previous occasion when he had driven through this Essex market town taking Abraham to his running success at Crystal Palace. Would he ever see that splendid young man race again?

  They had seen a little of Epping Forest and twenty minutes later turned off a minor road to confront a heavily-fenced area, fronted by two imposing iron gates. This was no ordinary estate, as there were two soldiers, both with rifles, one at each gate. Arthur explained the reason for the visit and they were told to wait. The corporal went through a small opening to the left of the main gates and disappeared into the nearby building. After a call through to the main office he reappeared and said he would accompany them to a senior manager.

  ‘I’ll come back in an hour to an hour and a half; don’t worry if you’re longer,’ Jack Mansfield said to Eleanor and Arthur. ‘One other thing: Liz and Mary Smith are doing a very important job, but I’m sure it’s not well paid, so if they want to go back to Rusfield straight away I can easily find someone in the town to drive them back.’ He smiled, reversed the car and drove off.